


The Lighthouse

by OberonsEarring



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Five Word Prompt Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26229352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OberonsEarring/pseuds/OberonsEarring
Summary: Scott gets sent on vacation, and Logan is told to go with him.
Relationships: Jean Grey/Logan (X-Men), Jean Grey/Scott Summers, Logan (X-Men)/Scott Summers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	The Lighthouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scottxlogan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scottxlogan/gifts).



> This is for ScottxLogan's five word prompt challenge that she gave me a while ago. My words were ego, pie, lighthouse, fact, and arms. Sorry for such a delay, but I finally finished it.

“You sure you want to do this?” 

I don't know why I'm here. He hasn't said a word since we left the Council chamber and they demanded that he go on a week long vacation to de-stress and unwind. He's been on mission after mission, filling out reports in his spare time, trying to be with family before it disappears again. Jean said he hadn't slept in days, and Emma complained that he was distracted during meetings and not keeping up like he should.

Why I got sent away with him, I didn't know at first, but I figured it out pretty quickly. Fact is, ol' One-eye isn't the best at relaxation. Jean and Emma figured that I could teach him a thing or two without bruising his ego too badly. At least, that's what I decided. Though, in the end, I think they wanted me to go along because they knew I'd bring the beer.

The old lighthouse is the only usable space left on Muir Island. The lab, the mansion – weather's hit it too hard to be useful, but the lighthouse was built to withstand. I ask him again if this is really where he intends to spend the week, and he nods. “This place probably has a generator,” he explains before dashing back down the stairs, leaving me to clean the thick layer of dust off of the kitchen counter and air out the fridge before stuffing it with goods. 

It was my idea to bring the groceries. Scott figured that we could just eat at the pub, but I know the man and his diet, so I insisted. Nothing like a Summers' temper tantrum when they've had too many carbs. I know that fight well, and it never turns out like planned.

The generator starts up with a bang and a puff of smoke, and I can smell the burn from here. The refrigerator, the oven, the very lights themselves begin to spark with life. I'm more concerned with the groceries, but Scott isn't. In an instant, he's up the steps and flipping off lights, trying to reserve what fuel we have left. “A day and a half before we have to get gas,” he explains. That means, there's not much left in the tank.

“How much when full?”

“Three days at most. If we turn things off.”

“And you brought us here, why?” I scoff.

“You don't find it beautiful?”

And, that was that. Scottie's always had an odd way of looking at things. Maybe it's the perennial red specs, or maybe it's he's now living on the moon and forgot what real air smells like. Either way, it's hard to argue with the man when he says something like that. 

As I continue to put away our things, I watch him ruffle around in his bag, taking out a thick manila folder. “That's not what I think it is, is it?” I ask. He barely glances at me before taking a seat at the old captain's desk in the corner of the small living space. “Scott--”

“It's just to pass the time.”

“That's work.”

“And?”

“This is your vacation. You're not supposed to work on vacation.”

The fight is expected. I grab his folder, he latches onto my wrist. I push at his shoulder, he knees me in the groin. Within minutes we're on the floor wrestling over a damn folder full of work. He holds the folder above my head, stretching across the floor to keep it from me. I scramble to my feet, and he to his, and he continues to hold it up. I jump, but I can't reach it. “This is important work, Logan. I need to get it done.”

“The Council didn't send you on vacation so you--”

“I don't care why the Council sent me on vacation. This is the safety of our nation that I'm holding in my hands right now. This is our security, and it needs to be done.”

Another no argument moment. I could stab him. I could kiss him. But, in the end, none of that matters with the mutant cause at stake. I relent. Take my loss and hover back to the kitchen, leaving him at the desk. Groceries, sundries. I put them all away and contemplate the rest of the day. I had nothing planned. At least not really. A night on the beach when I thought he'd choose somewhere warmer. An evening fishing, when I thought he'd go rural. But he chose neither. Cold and damp, Muir Island is little more than fog and broken buildings, and I'm left to find some way to tempt Scott Summers from his work.

Another reason why Jeannie and Emma sent me along, Scott can't cook. Yeah, he can make a mean bowl of soup, but vacation food is not his forte. Sure, I may not be as good as Emma's little secret, but I can hold my own.

I decide something a little light's in order – a starter, something to get his mind excited for what's next. A Tom-Yum soup with shrimp and lobster, spicy, refreshing. Enough heat to pull the chill out of the air, but enough flavor to have him thinking about it for the next hour. Lemongrass, galangal, and pretty soon, he's wandered into the kitchen wondering about the smell. “It'll be ready in a bit,” I tell him and push him back towards the living space. “Get your work done so we can relax.”

He doesn't argue this time, just hunches back to the desk, taking several deep breaths as he settles back down. His stomach growls, and I know I've gotten him piqued. I smile, remembering the old adage about a man's heart and stomach. 

A crusty baguette, buttered and baked. I'll have to make a run for bread this evening, which could be the perfect excuse to get Scott out of the lighthouse. Especially if he wants breakfast in the morning. I have plans for breakfast now, and he's going to love it.

“It smells delicious,” he says when lunch is finally served. 

Funny thing about cooking for someone who thinks plain chicken breast and undressed lettuce is a perfect meal, you never know how they're going to react to heat, and Slim does not react well. One bite in and his face is as red as his glasses, and beads of sweat line his the edge of his hair. Still, I ask him what he thinks, wondering if we're going to fight the whole week, or if he's going to behave himself.

“That's a lot of flavor,” he says quietly, coughing into his napkin. I can't help but laugh inwardly at his efforts. He doubles down on his determination to finish the spicy soup, and does so slowly, letting it cool down a bit before taking another sip. He munches on the sea food, enjoying its' tenderness before lifting the bowl to his mouth and drinking it dry. He doesn't want seconds – it's too spicy for him – but he is impressed with the dish and the fact that I made it. “Do you want me to do dishes?”

“No. Get your work done. I have plans.”

Scott gives me a sideways look and swifts off to the desk. I watch after him – the sudden erasure of our conversation, the meal, everything. He becomes so involved in his work that he doesn't notice the bings and bangs of dishes as I wash them. The water heater is barely working, but I don't dare tell him. It will interrupt him, and considering I have a mind full of plans for us, I hate the idea of him leaving his area tonight.

Evening comes and the lighthouse is clean. `Every inch of it is dusted and ready for use, the sheets and blankets are clean, the windows are bright and shiny. One-eye doesn't notice, but that's okay. I don't expect him to, not with how hard he's been working on that folder. “What do you think about Shepard's Pie for dinner?” I ask him when it nears seven o'clock. “The pubs will still be open. I have coin to spare.”

“I'm busy,” he remarks absently.

“I'm hungry,” I tell him, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I shouldn't be doing this, but it feels so natural. “And we need bread.”

He stops for a moment, his body shivers. “Logan?” His voice is strange. “Logan?” I take a step back and pull off a mischievous laugh, one that lets him take a breath. “We could just eat here,” he tells me, without looking at me.

“I'd rather go out, bub. Seems a waste to be cooped up in here the entire vacation. Let your hair down, Slim. Live a little.”

The village is within walking distance, and the stars are nice, the ocean breeze cool. Hands stuffed in his pockets, head down, he's still a silent thing. “How's your work coming?”

“Would have gotten more done if we'd stayed in.” He's a little irritated, but not outright angry.

“Come on, bub. Been a while since the two of us had any time to talk.”

“You mean about Jean.”

“Not what I thought you were going to say, but go for it.” I can tell he's side-eyeing me, even though his brow doesn't move. He's good at this shit – playing the stoic – but I can tell that something's really bothering him. “You don't like that she's sleeping with me, do you?”

He takes a breath and surprisingly shakes his head. He and Jean had talked this out when they both came back to life. She wanted a choice, and wanted Scott to have a choice, too. They had both changed so much over the years that they needed time to get to know each other again. He wasn't jealous of me, not in the least. “Are _you_ happy with the arrangement?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. I never asked how you felt about it.”

We go silent until we reach the pub. Beers and food are ordered and delivered to our booth in the corner. I've been to pubs like this before – wooden tables and slick booths, all polished and dirty at the same time. A bit sticky from where the table wasn't wiped down properly, and the smell of stale tobacco and spilled drinks. Ain't no jukebox in here, ain't no need for one. The place is noisy with chatter – men and women feeling their oats, living up a life that Scott Summers would never allow himself to live. 

Me? I just want someone to punch me so I can get in a fight. But, I doubt that will happen here. These people aren't seedy. They're just happy.

“I'm not unhappy with the arrangement, Slim.”

He studies me for long moments, his eyes hidden behind those thick red lenses. It's hard to tell what he's thinking in that time-bomb of a head of his, but it can't be good. “But, you're not _happy_ with it, either.”

“Where's your mind going with this?”

A long wait as he sips at his beer. He leans forward, head in hands. “I don't know if we're right for each other anymore.”

I choke on my food. But, take a second to collect myself before I speak. “I take it things are going well with you and Emma?” He shakes his head. “You got someone else in mind, don't you?”

He leans back in the booth, completely unreadable and silent. “I want Jean to be happy.”

“She's happy,” I assure him.

“Good.”

We finish our meals in silence and trek back to the lighthouse. Scott immediately returns to his work, and I reflect on our conversation. 

Jean's been happier than I've ever seen her the past few months. An independent, free spirit still trying to figure out who she is now that the Phoenix Force is gone from her life. She's a cuddler, Jean is. I don't mind it, but I'm surprised that Scott wants to give that up. After all, he was the one insisting on adjoining rooms on the moon. He thought it would bring us all closer, and it has. I never realized he was withdrawing.

But, that's the thing about Summers. You never notice him leaving until he's already gone. He's sneaky like that. Always able to force a smile. All his smiles look forced, so it's hard to tell the genuines from the fakes. 

I wonder if Jeannie knows that he's going to leave her. Considering that she's a telepath, I'm sure she's figured it out, but still. It's going to cause her quite a bit of pain. The only bright side will be that he's not leaving her for Emma again. That should be some sort of relief. But, then, who's he after?

I run down a mental list of all the women that he's interacted with over the past few months. Those that he's spent time around after meetings and missions. That he's drank with at the Lagoon, or sat with in the gardens. And, really, I can't think of a one. He hugged Ororo once. But, 'Ro hugs everyone – she's like that. Beautiful, kind-hearted. She thinks of Scott as her brother, and nothing more. Rogue's married. Betsy's in Britain. Most are too young, too involved in other relationships, or outright fear the man behind the red glasses. I can't think of anyone who Scott has shown interest in.

Maybe Jeannie actually wanted me here to convince Scott to stick around. 

It's late at night when he finally gives up the chase, and he's ready to go to bed. “Come with me,” I tell him, grabbing lawn chairs, blankets, and a case of beer.

“I'm tired, Logan,” is his response, but I won't take no for an answer. 

I drag him to the beach, set up the lawn chairs, throw him a blanket and a beer. “Sit.” He does so warily, his exhaustion making his face paler than usual. I take a deep breath of that salt-air, wrap myself up in the blanket. This is heaven. “Wanna finish talking about our conversation earlier?”

“Not really. No.”

It's a shame, though. I can tell it's weighing on him heavily. Like saying it made it real somehow. “Jeannie's a strong woman, Slim. She can handle it. So long as you have good reasons for it.”

“Yeah.” A silence. “I love her, Logan. Just not in the way that I used to. Same with Emma.”

“But you do love somebody, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And, you don't plan on telling that somebody, do you.”

“Not a chance.” I start to respond. “Can we not talk, please?”

I used to know the constellations. Mariko taught them to me. She taught me a lot of things, but she also taught me a lot of wrong things. She wasn't a poisonous woman, but her love... Her love hurt. Caught in the middle of an expected life and what she always wanted. Same with Jeannie, I suppose. Always expected to be the good girl, even tempered, nice. I think only Scott's made her angry enough to go hog wild, or she felt safe enough to show him that side of her knowing that she'd still be loved afterwards. 

'Course, Scott's used to people throwing their rage at him. Including me. It's like water. Soaks him for a minute, but he dries off pretty quick. My anger, though, it goes deep. Into my blood, and sometimes, it's so damn hard to let it go. I think that's one reason why I admire Scott. He doesn't hold a grudge. Doesn't let it effect his better judgment – unless it's personal. 

I see him – the tension that holds his shoulders and jaw. Sitting upright on the wooden lounger, head sunk in hands. Scott prefers the battlefield to the bedroom. It's easy for him to die, less easy to tell the loves of his life that he's changed his mind. Eyes still covered by his hands, he doesn't notice me rise and cross to his rear. Calloused hands on shoulders, I begin to soothe the knotted muscles underneath.

“Logan --”

His protest ends when I hit a particularly nasty ball of stress, and the man swoons forward. “Lay down on your stomach,” I tell him, trying to guide him down, but he's all fits and starts, never actually getting the words out. “Bub, this is for your own good.” Hand to neck, I force him to the chair, and use my arms to keep him there. “You need this.”

My elbows to the inside of his shoulder blades, he comes to slight moans, wonders, dreams. He relinquishes his control, lets me mold the muscles as I see fit, and I take my time. It was something I learned with Mariko, the art of being relaxed, something I perfected with Jean after she came back from the dead. Yes, Jean wanted me. So much. But, I never gave in. Not while Scottie was involved. Not while the man that I would give my life, love, and happiness for sought her as a companion. 

In many ways, I think she was disappointed, but in others thankful. It had to have been hard on her – torn between two men who were opposite ends of spectrum. But, I also imagine that it was hard on Scottie-boy, who saw the chemical attraction between me and Red, and could never let himself go enough in order to give her what she needed. 

I think that's why he took to Ems so easily. She didn't have that expectation of who he should be, how he should portray himself. And, after Apocalypse, beer knows what was in that head of his. His whole sense of self crumbled. I think the only reason he rebounded was because of the White Queen. But, like with Jean, things fell apart.

I don't know exactly happened between them. At the time, I was so angry and disappointed at the man that I could have carved face off. It seems a bit pointless to ask about it now. Like most things. Krakoa's a fresh start. And, maybe Scott needs one, too.

By the time I work the knots out of his muscles, Summers is fast asleep, his hand dragging down in the sand. Sometimes, people laugh or cry when getting a massage. They can't help it. The kneading of their muscles brings out some emotion hidden deep inside them. But Scottie-boy? He's so repressed that he just falls asleep. 

I wrap him up in the blanket and kindle up a small fire between us, and spend the night watching over him.

I don't know why, but I feel close to him. Though he's strong, I want to protect him. Though he's wise and fast-thinking, I want him to slow down, look at life every once in a while. I smooth hair back behind his ear, staring at the thin, barely there lines around his mouth. Smile lines. They're usually prevalent in someone his age, but the man smiles so little, that those lines aren't there. He's not that ready-to-fight-me-at-the-drop-of-a-hat kid that I met so many years ago. No. He's far more than that.

He's beautiful.

And, with that thought, I feel saddened. Here I am sitting on a beach, with a man I deeply care for, and though he has esteem for me, he'll never know the weight of my heart. For years, I've choked it down, hidden it, raged at him for it. He'll never see me as anything more than his right hand. The man he can give an order to and know it will be done. He trusts me like that, but that's it.

I shouldn't have come. 

Morning brings a new start. Already the coffee is bubbling and the smell of eggs and bacon light the air. Scott finally moves, rustling around, stretching out his back. He sits up with a start, unaware of his surroundings, then looks at me. He can't find words, but I know he wants to thank me.

“Drink up,” I tell him, handing him a cup of coffee, and he does so with pleasure – thankful that he doesn't have to have the awkward conversation that neither of us want to have. 

After breakfast, we make our way back to the lighthouse where Scott gets immediately back to work. He only has a couple more days of it if he stays diligent, and then he looks at me with a raised brow. “If I'm allowed to stay diligent.”

I shrug. “Depends on how bored I get, One-eye.”

Two days later – and without a wink of sleep – he finally stretches his arms above his head and closes the folder. Thankful for the peace and quiet I gave him, he asks if I want to go to the pub. “A beer sounds really good right now.”

“We have beer, Slim. You just ain't been--”

“A walk, too. Getting outside would feel good.”

He seems a bit happier at the moment, maybe loopier considering his lack of sleep. I'm not sure how well that beer is going to go over, but I'm willing to see it through so long as I don't have to carry him on my back to get him back to the lighthouse. 

I hate the silence that comes with these walks. He walks beside me, though, slowing his pace with those long legs of his so that I can keep up. “Happy that you got your work done?” He nods. “You gonna order a salad?” A lopsided grin. “You gonna sleep tonight?” He nods again.

The pub is near empty as it's so early in the morning, but the ale's still a-flowing, and the food's still a-frying. We both order fish and chips and a pint of brew, lean back and look out the window. It's a foggy day, sort of dreary, but he's smiling anyway. “Haven't seen you look this happy in a while, Cyke.”

“Haven't been this caught up on my work in a while.”

“That's all it takes?”

“That's all it takes.” A slight laugh before he sips at his beer. “I want to rent a boat.” It's a bit of a surprise, but I nod. “I haven't sailed in a long time.”

“Let's rent a boat, then.”

“You can fish, if you like,” he offers. “We can get some poles --”

“Yeah, we can fish.” He looks almost hurt by the way I cut him off. It wasn't what I intended, so I flash a grin of my own. “I like fishing. One of my favorite hobbies. That and stabbing things.” I can tell the beer and lack of sleep is getting to him, even with the greasy pile of food that he's picking through. “You should get some rest first.”

“I'm fine.”

“You're always fine, until you're not. We can rent a boat tomorrow, take a trip up the coastline, maybe dock at the port and explore the mainland for a bit.”

“That sounds nice.”

Silence again. He doesn't want me to bring it up, but I do anyway. “You really gonna break it off with Jean?” A long hesitation, and then he nods. His eyes are shaded by the glasses, but he's turned towards the window. “You realize what you're giving up, right?” He nods again. “She was all you ever wanted. You fought tooth and nail to keep her away from me, and now--”

“I know exactly what I did,” he says, a temper coming over him. “And, I know exactly what I'm doing now.” The guilt emanates off of him, turns him pale. “It's going to hurt, but I can't lie to her anymore. It was wrong of me to do so to begin with.”

“To begin with?” I ask, not quite following where this is going. “How long's this been going on?”

He shrugs, dips his head again, looks out the window. “I don't know. Feels like forever.”

I understand how he feels. I wish I could do more than just sit here on the other side of the table and watch him wallow in his guilt. But, there's not much I can do except for listen, and though I'm good at that, he's not much one for talking. I've pulled I can out of him for now, but it makes me wonder who this mystery lady is. 

He's asleep not long after we get back to the lighthouse. Curled up on the sofa, his long legs hanging off and his face buried in the cushions. I take off his shoes, straighten him out a little bit and cover him with the blanket. He'll sleep 'til morning as long as he's been awake, and that's a good thing. There's not much time left on his vacation, so he needs all the energy he can muster to enjoy himself.

The winds are high the following day, and the ocean somewhat rapid, but Scott insists that he can sail it. We climb aboard the boat with deep fishing poles in tow and sail to the mainland. He thinks that looking around first would be better because he doesn't want the fish to go bad, and since this was my idea to begin with, I don't complain. A cup of good coffee at a little tea shop, browsing through an old book store, trying on winter coats. He has an awful taste in fashion – no wonder Jean and Emma always bought him clothes on holidays.

The town is quiet, almost dismally so, but Scott's enjoying himself. He always enjoyed the quiet, whereas it's mostly made me uneasy. But, for some reason, today, it doesn't seem so bad. A light mist of rain, and we duck into an odd little curiosity museum – taxidermy and pottery, ancient farm equipment and lockets. It's like passing through the strangest parts of history – stuff even I wasn't around for, and that's pretty spectacular. He buys a postcard from the gift shop to put on the fridge at home. “The kids might like it,” he says shyly. “Right?” I nod. 

He doesn't talk about the children much – not to Jean, not to Alex, definitely not to me. He fears losing them again. To the future, to a villain, to something far less complicated and normal that teenagers get lost to everyday. It's because of that that he doesn't get his hopes up, doesn't talk about them. He's finding it hard to balance their independence and his want to raise them properly, to be their father, to teach them how to be good human beings. “Sure. They'll love it,” I answer him, and he stuffs it in his inner pocket.

The fishing, however, isn't so great. While Scottie-boy is a master of the watercraft, the fish just ain't biting. Which is a shame, I was really looking forward to something more appetizing than our meal yesterday. 

Scott drapes himself across the desk, hands under head, staring up at the gray and cloudy sky. He's getting wet, but he doesn't care. I sit next to him. “It's peaceful,” he says quietly. 

“Yeah.” I lay down next to him.

“It's you.”

I'm taken aback by what I think I just heard. I turn my head to look at him, and he's still staring at the sky. For a long moment, I think I misheard him, that my little fantasies of him are disrupting my reality. 

“Forget it,” he sighs, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his legs. “It was stupid of me. Forget I ever said that.”

He's hurt, but now that I know it's real, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. “What if I don't want to?” His laugh is dark, self-deprecating. I sit up and place a hand on his damp shoulder. “I'm serious, Slim. What if I don't want to forget?” 

He finally gets what I'm saying. His brows lower, his lips smudge into a sad scowl. “You're with Jean,” he finally says. “You make her happy.” 

I finally get why Jean and Emma sent me on vacation. They knew how Scott felt. They knew how I felt. “I think she's okay with this, Slim.” I pull him back into my chest, rough my hand through his hair, and feel him relax.

“You're warm,” he whispers, staying still so that I don't stop twining my fingers through his locks.

“Yeah.”

I think Jean's going to be happy about this. She's always been about freedom, and now both Scott and I have found it. And, of course, Emma's not going to discourage it. She wants her ex-lover to be happy, and I'll do everything in my power to make sure that he is.


End file.
